


A Night Off

by Cipher_Is_My_Waifu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Drug Use, Marijuana, Uncle-Niece Relationship, and weed, but everything is healed with the Power of Mabel, why do things get angsty every time I write Stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cipher_Is_My_Waifu/pseuds/Cipher_Is_My_Waifu
Summary: After several minutes, the hidden door reopened, and Stan emerged with a small pinewood box gripped tightly in his hands. He listened again for any sounds to indicate if either of the children had snuck out of bed while he’d been in the basement, deciding after a minute or so that they were likely still sound asleep. Content that he was safe from either of them catching him, Stan crossed through the house and onto the back porch.-----AKA Stoner Grunk AU





	

“Good night, Dipper! Good night, Grunkle Stan!”

“Night, Grunkle Stan. Night, Mabel.”

“G’night, kids. Go to sleep; I need you up early to help in the Shack tomorrow.”

The attic door clicked closed, and Stan Pines waited a few minutes, listening for any signs that his visiting niece and nephew were actually going to bed, rather than staying up late scrapbooking and reading. The twins could be heard chattering for a short time, but their whispers were quickly interrupted by yawns and quiet snores. _Finally_.

Stan made his way downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards, down through the gift shop and over to the vending machine that only seemed to work about one out of every three times it was used. Glancing over his shoulder, he punched in a quick code, and the machine pushed itself away from the wall. He stepped through the doorway behind it, pulling the heavy appliance shut behind himself.

After several minutes, the hidden door reopened, and Stan emerged with a small pinewood box gripped tightly in his hands. He listened again for any sounds to indicate if either of the children had snuck out of bed while he’d been in the basement, deciding after a minute or so that they were likely still sound asleep. Content that he was safe from either of them catching him, Stan crossed through the house and onto the back porch.

Settling onto the old, stained couch he’d dragged outside a few years prior, Stan carefully set his box on the ground next to his slippered feet. He took a moment to breath in the cool Oregon air. A small, pointed silhouette stood just beyond the line of trees, and Stan frowned. He’d have to make sure he started putting those gnome traps out again; they’d been hanging around too much for comfort in the week since Mabel and Dipper had arrived for the summer. _Probably trying to steal my apocalypse supplies again,_ he thought to himself as the shadow disappeared into the woods. Shaking his head, he turned and sat a small, portable record player on top of two stacked milk crates, flipping a switch and smiling as the opening notes to Ray Orson’s ‘Pretty Lady’ started to play. He hadn’t had a night on the porch in over a month, between working on the portal in his basement, preparing his house for the twins’ visit, and entertaining (or overworking, as those pesky ‘child labor laws’ would have him believe) the kids in the Shack. He needed this.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the threadbare cushions of the sofa, staring up at the stars. There was one funny, bright little constellation he could never quite take his eye off of on clear nights like this; a little cluster of stars that he thought looked almost like a strange sort of hand. His relaxed smile slipped a little, and he gazed at the stars for a long, quiet moment, before he shook his head again and leaned forwards, grabbing his box from the ground. _This isn’t a night for those kinds of thoughts,_ he grouched to himself. _This is a night to relax and forget a little._

Stan opened the box, sniffing at the odor from within it. A slightly grimy-looking plastic baggie, the type used for holding sandwiches on picnics and packed school lunches, sat inside, filled roughly a quarter of the way with what was unmistakable as anything but marijuana. He’d felt a little bad about snagging it off of one of his employees back at the end of March, but in his defense, he certainly wasn’t paying the teenager to get high on his roof with her buddies anyway. And besides, since he’d probably signed the paycheck she used to buy it, he’d paid for it, in a way. So it all evened out. Sorta.

He pulled a pack of rolling papers from the box, carefully lying one on his thigh and sprinkling a pinch of the sticky green herbs onto it. Setting the box aside, he grasped each end of the paper between his thumb, index and middle fingers, and deftly made quick work of twisting it into a doobie. He brought the paper to his lips, running his tongue down the side to stick it together before holding it in front of his eyes, briefly inspecting his work. _Still got it,_ he thought, sticking one end between his teeth and carefully setting the box back on the porch. Leaning back on the couch, he held a lighter near the tip of his joint, flicking it to life and inhaling deeply. _Damn_ , it had been too long. And this was pretty good shit, too; he had to admit that Wendy at least had good taste. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before slowly, and slightly unsteadily, exhaling through his nose. A thin stream of white smoke trailed into the air, and Stan sighed as the drug began to settle into his brain, taking another slow drag.

It wasn’t often at all that Stan would allow himself a night off like this. Maybe something like twice a month or so. Even this small bag would probably last him at least a good three months, maybe even longer; it had never taken much to get him pleasantly high, and he’d found he needed less as he got older. Probably too old to still be smoking weed out back like a teenager, but he didn’t really care. He worked hard in the Shack every day, and down in the basement almost every night, so if he wanted to have a toke in his backyard every once in a while, he was damn well going to. Sure, he felt kinda guilty every minute that was spent on himself, rather than on bringing his brother back from wherever he’d sent him to, but… He snorted derisively, giving his head another quick shake to dispel that train of thought. _None a’ those thoughts tonight,_ he repeated to himself, slowly drawing on the paper held between his thumb and finger again.

Several minutes later, he leaned his head against the back of the sofa. His brain was light and kinda fuzzy feeling, the pain his joints was far less noticeable than usual, and his limbs felt almost like they could float away if he let them. He just felt so damn good. Glancing down at his doobie, he guessed he could probably get another two, maybe three hits off of it. A sudden gnawing hunger made itself known in his gut, and he briefly weighed the pros and cons of snuffing the joint prematurely versus not immediately shoveling a few plates of leftover Stancakes down his gullet, and he turned to look back towards the house.

There was a face staring at him from the other side of the screen door, and Stan nearly fell off the couch in horror. “Hi, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel called from inside the house. She pushed the door open and bounced over to sit next to him, surprisingly energetic despite the late hour. Stan swore under his breath as she landed on the couch, frantically throwing the end of his joint to the ground and squashing it under his slipper. Mabel frowned as she sniffed the air, throwing him a grumpy glare. “Grunkle Stan, were you smoking?” she asked, looking at the lighter still lying next to his thigh.

Stan looked away from his niece, rubbing the back of his head. Damnit; now he was gonna have to sober up, and quick, wasn’t he? “Look, pumpkin, I...yeah, I guess I was. Don’t, ah, don’t tell your brother?”

Mabel gave the old man her very best, and tellingly sleepy-looking, puppy dog eyes. “But Grunkle Stan, don’t you know smoking’s bad for you? It’ll make you sick!” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like Poppa Shermie’s house out here,” she grumbled quietly, crossing her arms and turning away from him.

Stan blinked and smacked his dry lips together a few times, taking a long moment to let her words sink in. Shermie’s house? That couldn’t be right. No way his big brother would ever smoke dope; he’d been a bigger narc than Ford was! He snorted, suddenly realizing that he was probably more blazed than he had thought. Mabel was looking at him rather strangely, and he fought to control the laughter bubbling out of himself. This was a battle he was losing very quickly, and the thought just made him laugh even harder.

“Are you okay, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asked worriedly. “Did you get into the Mabel Juice?”

Stan took a few deep breaths, finally managing to bring himself under control. _Moses_ , he was glad she'd been the one to come downstairs. There was no way Dipper wouldn't have put two and two together by now. “No no, sweetie, it’s...haha, it’s just that when I was a kid, I useta come home smellin’ like reef...like, ah, cigars, and Shermie'd get so mad at me an’ threaten to tell our pops. ‘S just kinda funny to find out he smokes, too.” He rubbed at his achingly hungry gut, wishing the kid would just go back to bed. He had a fridge to raid. At the same time, the thought of Shermie getting high...jeez. He was gonna have to give him a call soon. He didn’t talk to his eldest brother often; it had never been easy pretending to be Ford to family, but this was one conversation that he knew would be worth it. Whether he'd still feel that way come morning and sobriety...eh. He'd enjoy the thought of it, anyway.

Mabel tapped Stan on the shoulder, and he jumped slightly. She looked honestly concerned now, and Stan wondered how long he’d been lost in thought about his brother and junk food. “You sure you’re okay, Grunkle Stan?” she asked, leaning in to stare closely at his face. “Your eyes are all red.”

“Oh, yeah, sweetie. It's just, uh, heh...it's a side effect from smoking...cigars, sometimes. Dries yer eyes out a little,” he replied with a snort. Mabel gave a slow nod before responding.

“Poppa Shermie told me an’ Dipper that once, too. Dad got really mad when I asked if he ever got dry eyes from his cigars, though, and we didn't get to visit him again for a whole two months.” She paused before continuing, looking more confused than ever at Stan's sudden bark of laughter. “Whatcha listening to, anyway? It sounds like angry kittens.”

Turning back to his record player, Stan realized the needle had caught, and it was now making a series of unpleasant scratching and popping noises.. “Shi...uh, shoot,” he hissed, quickly pulling the needle off before the record could be damaged any further. “Just some music from when I was younger,” he muttered. “Didn't realize it had stopped like that.”

“So let’s put on another one!” the kid exclaimed, pulling a small box full of records from the floor of the porch and onto her lap. She started to slowly leaf through the albums, pausing every so often when one caught her interest.

Stan made a slight ‘tsk’ noise, carefully putting the completed single back into its sleeve. This one had really stuck out in Ford’s collection when he moved into the shack, clearly one of his most-often played if the wear and tear on the sleeve’s edges were anything to go by. “I dunno if you’ll find anything you know in there, honey. It’s all a little before your time, y’kn-”

He was cut off by a high-pitched squeal of excitement, and jumped as he turned to see Mabel shoving an LP in his face. “You listen to Icelandic pop sensation BABBA?! I love BABBA! I mean, Dipper does, too, but he won’t admit it.”

Stan blinked in surprise, taking the record carefully from Mabel’s hands. He stared down at it for a long moment before saying anything in response. “Oh...uh...not really. I mean, that was always more of F...my...my brother’s taste than mine.” His memory wasn’t always the best these days, but Stan could still remember having to wait in line to use the bathroom because Ford was busy singing a falsetto into his hairbrush, being kept up late while Ford worked on his extra credit reports and hummed far too loudly and obliviously to himself, never being allowed to change the station when they worked on the Stan ‘O War if 'Disco Girl' was playing…the look on his twin’s face when he’d unwrapped this exact record on their seventeenth birthday. He’d skipped lunch for a week to save up to buy it for him, and he smiled to himself; a little sadly, but surprisingly, the memories felt more sweet than bitter. That was unusual.

A loud, drawn-out yawn brought his attention back to the child sitting to his right, and he blinked slowly. “What're you doin’ up, anyway?”

Mabel pressed her lips together, looking away from him and out to the woods. “Just...had a kinda weird dream, I guess,” she muttered, more to herself than to her great-uncle.

Stan leaned in a little closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and licking his increasingly dry lips. Fuck if he couldn't use some water right about now. “Wanna tell yer old Grunkle about it?”

The preteen hesitated for a second before nodding. “It was about the window? I think. It felt like it was watching me. I don’t really remember too much about what it did, but when I woke up, I couldn’t stop staring at it. And then, I thought I saw a little guy outside looking back at me.” She paused for a second, kicking at the air. Stan had a brief, concerned thought at that; were the gnomes spying on the kids, now? “It was freaky, so I thought I’d come downstairs and get a snack, but then I saw the porch light was on, so I came out to see what you were doing instead.”

Snacks. Right. Stan knew he’d forgotten something, immediately overlooking his concern about the gnomes, and now the reminder that food existed had his stomach roaring for attention again. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure there’s a plate of Stancakes in the fridge with my name on ‘em,” he said slowly, focusing on sounding as sober as he could manage. “How ‘bout we go split ‘em, maybe drag those cookies I’ve been saving outta the cupboard, and then you get on back to bed?”

Mabel’s face lit up at the mention of cookies, and she threw her arms into the air with a little cheer. “Yes! Late-night cookies and Mabel Juice are the best!” The girl quickly leaned over, wrapping her arms tightly around Stan’s chest, and gave him a kiss on the cheek before leaping from the couch and racing back into the house. “C’mon, Grunkle Stan!”

Stan blinked, placing a hand against the slightly damp spot on his cheek. He chuckled, and slowly pushed himself to his feet with a groan, his knees making a quiet popping sound. Glancing back up at the stars, he smiled. It’d been a long time since he’d been shown that kind of familial affection, unwarranted as it felt. Maybe he had intended tonight to be for forgetting things for a few hours, but Mabel had honestly improved his mood enough that he could find himself thinking about Stanford without the horrible burden of guilt weighing him down. Hell, maybe it was just the reefer talking, but he felt almost...hopeful, for the first time in a while; that he might actually pull this off, bring Ford home, and finally be able to reunite with the brother he’d lost nearly a full lifetime ago. He held an outstretched hand up towards his personal constellation, as though slapping his fingers against its own, murmured a quiet “Night, Sixer,” and began to follow Mabel into the kitchen, albeit with a slight wobble to his steps.

It was really good shit, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I know ABBA didn’t form until the early 70’s, but I got really attached to the idea of Ford being obsessed with them as an early teen, so let’s just pretend they got together a decade or so earlier. Reality is an illusion and time is dead, after all. Also now I really want to write several more oneshots revolving around Stan and his relationships with his brothers and weed, so if you liked this, keep an eye out for those? Maybe?


End file.
